


First to the Finish Line

by Toolfish



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: AKA Helen ponders the fact that she's very bi, Character Death, Coping With The Loss Of A Loved One, F/F, alternatively titled: have you met my dead girlfriend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 09:26:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7709764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toolfish/pseuds/Toolfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Helen and Maude’s relationship was a novel cut short before the climax. Now Helen has to cope with the death of her dearest friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First to the Finish Line

**Author's Note:**

> I was rly dissatisfied with how The Simpsons failed to show Helen's reaction to Maude's death so here's this. And a special shoutout to Goldieogilt on Twitter for being a beta reader and helping me clean this up!

The sunlight weaves its way through the branches and leaves above, freckling its away across Maude Flanders and Helen Lovejoy as they lay across a picnic blanket.

  
This was supposed to be a double date. Timothy and Ned would be having a conversation, entirely one-sided, with Ned going on as Lovejoy occasionally hummed or grunted in acknowledgement. That didn’t happen, though. Plans fell through, and now it was just Helen and Maude.

  
That makes it sound like Helen minded. She didn’t, not one bit. Timothy had become so distant, Helen felt lightheaded when she tried to reach out to him. But Maude—sweet, down-to-earth Maude—was grounded and pleasant, and easy to reach.

  
She can’t help but laugh when she thinks about it; how well she and Maude get along, in comparison to their husbands’ relationship. Helen knew that Maude knew that the Reverend wasn’t as fond of Ned as one would think.

  
Maude hears Helen’s quiet glittering laughter and cocks her head, a silent question on her lips.

  
“Do you think our husbands will ever be friends, really?” she asks, a smile in her tone.

  
At the question, Maude smiles back. “Well, I’m not a betting woman, but I don’t think Neddy is ever going to be the Reverend’s favorite person.”

  
Helen stares at Maude, sunlight in her hair and the stars in her eyes, and God, Helen swears this woman must be an angel brought to life. She wonders if she reached out and touched her—maybe kissed her—if she would disappear before her very eyes.

 

Maude Flanders is dead. It’s as simple as that, and there’s no question about it. The ambulance couldn’t get to her in time, and they could do nothing to save her. Helen thinks about it too much, and before she knows it, she’s sobbing in the Kwik-E-Mart, clenching a bag of chips all too tightly.

  
She doesn’t sleep. How can she, knowing that her closest friend is gone? That night she closes her eyes only to see Maude’s face, smiling in full, glowing color. She tries to count Timothy’s breaths, as a means to lull herself to sleep. With a shaky hand, she reaches out and runs a hand through her husband’s hair. He responds with an unconscious mumble, and she retracts her hand.

  
After a few hours of hopelessly awaiting sleep, Helen tosses the covers off herself and leaves the bed. She puts a robe over her purple nightgown, and makes her way to the basement.

  
The dim light hums over Timothy’s train set. For a brief second, she thinks about overturning the table, smashing the trains beneath her feet. Why does that fake town get to look so pristine, so perfect while her life was in ruins? For goodness sake, Maude was dead! She was dead. Dead, dead, dead. And there sat Timothy’s shining replicas, mocking her with their perfection.

  
That wouldn’t solve anything, though. And her husband may never forgive her for wrecking his toys. She pays the replicas one last fleeting glance before moving on to her true objective: the metal storage shelves in the back of the basement.

  
Kneeling down, Helen reaches in and pulls out an old scrapbook, and, after a moment of fishing around, retrieves a flashlight. She picks it up and tucks it safely under her arm.  
On her way out of the basement, she indulges herself and knocks over one of the plastic citizens that waits for the train. Slightly appeased, she makes her way back up the stairs to the kitchen.

  
Helen ignores the cold linoleum against the bottom of her feet as she sat at the table. She places the scrapbook gingerly before her. Like an olympian preparing for their dive into the pool, Helen takes two deep breaths.

  
After clicking on the flashlight, Helen opens the cover, and is greeted with Jessica’s baby pictures. She was such a chubby newborn. An unkempt Helen beams proudly while cradling a sleeping Jessica, and she remembers Timothy’s warm grin behind the camera. That was a good day.

  
After a few pages, she finds what she’s looking for. Baby Jessica in all different poses and outfits in their house. One page features the infant playing with her godmother—the very deceased Maude Flanders. Helen’s breath hitches in her throat at the sight of her friend.

  
How could Maude be dead? Just 24 hours earlier she had been as lively as ever, making weekend plans with Helen. Then, she was gone. God had reached out to her candle and pressed the burning stick between his fingers. Helen imagines the hiss of the fire extinguishing with a sick nausea settling in the pit of her stomach.

  
“Oh, Maude,” Helen mumbles as she turns another page, this one featuring a picture of Maude holding Jessica and beaming proudly at the camera.

  
She focuses on that picture, and, when she stares hard enough, it’s as if she’s there, still looking into Maude’s eyes and laughing. They had talked about Jessica growing up alongside Maude’s son Rod, who was only a few months older than Jessica. She feels guilty for forgetting Rod and his brother Todd. How could they be feeling right now? She was so selfish, forgetting the children of her best friend and thinking of her feelings first. No child should have to outlive their parent.

  
Helen makes a mental note to offer a shoulder to cry on in the morning, but for now, she returns her thoughts to the picture before her. The picture didn’t capture Maude’s sparkling eyes, or her shallow dimples, or her light freckles that adorned her cheeks.

  
She stares at the dull, faded picture. She wonders how Maude felt about her, truly. Was there love behind those eyes? Or did Maude only spend time with her to pass time and dull her own loneliness? Helen knew that she had loved Maude, faintly believed that maybe she was the hand she would hold on her deathbed. She had daydreamed about them spending their lives together, thought with a sick perversion about what would happen if their husbands ever up and disappeared.  
But now, Helen was alone.

  
She allows the tears to spill out, staining and warping the pages below her. The flashlight in her hand drops to the ground, bouncing and rolling after its descent, casting tall shadows against the peeling wallpaper. She begins shaking and embraces herself, thinking maybe, just maybe if she holds herself tight enough the shaking will go away. A few hiccups escape her throat before her husband speaks up from the doorway.

  
“Helen?” Timothy calls out, a little louder than a whisper, confusion clear in his voice. It’s only when she turns around and looks at him, that he realizes the state she’s in. “Oh, Helen,” he says softly before crossing the kitchen to her.

  
He looks at the damp scrapbook on the table, before looking pityingly down on his wife. Slowly, Timothy leans down and rests on one knee, so that he can make better eye contact with his wife. “You need to sleep,” he tells her, reaching out and taking her hand in his before giving it a small squeeze. It’s a sign of support, one that she’s found comfort in over the years. The gentle squeeze of her hand, and his thumb trailing over her wrist.

  
She nods. She knows. She knows she needs to sleep.

  
With a small sigh, and only brief hesitation, Lovejoy leans forward and embraces his wife with his free arm. She lets loose a sob, and the waterworks begin anew as she latches onto him, gripping his shirt as tight as possible with her unoccupied hand.

  
For a few minutes, she shakes in his arms, her whole body quivering along with her sobs. Then she leans back, and looks at her husband. He looks tired. Tired and scared. She isn’t used to him looking scared.

  
“Let’s go to bed,” he says, and she allows him to lead her back to the bedroom.

  
She still doesn’t sleep, but she finds a warm comfort in her husband’s presence that hadn’t been there earlier. After listening to Timothy’s breathing and watching him sleep, Helen looks out their window at the night sky.

  
Her parents had told her that each star was one of God’s children that had passed away too early. She wonders if that applies to the housewife, with the caring smile and shallow dimples.


End file.
